


cry wolf

by athenasdragon



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Blood Loss, Dust Arc, Epilogue, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, TAZ dust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 20:12:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenasdragon/pseuds/athenasdragon
Summary: [DUST ARC FINALE SPOILERS] After taking a bullet for Gandy, Errol is determined to find his way back to Carrion Street. He may be in slightly worse shape than he would like to pretend.





	cry wolf

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to go to sleep by 11 but I drank caffeine, listened to the finale, and got very emotional about Errol, so now it's 1am and I give you this

Dawn breaks over Dry River like a rush of water. The yellow light slides down the streets, drips under doors and around blinds, sweeps eddies of dust down the road. The flood of it sends Errol Ryehouse’s legs out from under him where he stands outside the jailhouse.

Dylan Mathis is safe, Sherriff Connors has been removed from the scene, and the tips of Errol’s fingers are starting to go cold. His knee hits the dirt before he realizes he’s sinking. No one notices, though; everyone is turned away, watching the sunrise and murmuring about the night’s events, so he grits his teeth and uses the hitching post to pull himself back to his feet. A flash of heat sears his side as moving flesh and bone tug the hole punched neatly past his ribs and a fresh pulse of blood starts cooling too quickly in the morning chill.

“Hey, I know there’s gonna be a lot of paperwork, but I’d like to get a nap in before we get back to it. Anyone got a problem with me heading back to Carrion Street for right now?”

Gandy’s eyes flick over him as she turns, taking in the ragged hole in his coat. “Don’t you want to get that stitched up?”

He puts a great deal of effort into an unaffected wave. “’S just a graze. I’ll bind it up before I sleep.”

“Good luck, Errol. It’s unfortunate that your fleshy form holds such weakness, but I trust that you will take care of yourself.” Augustus chortles, as he is wont to do when deriding the living. Errol suspects that his jokes hide jealousy.

“Yeah, well, me and my fleshy form are going to go lie down for a bit, but I’ll catch y’all back here in a few hours for a debrief.”

No one stops him from going.

As he walks back through Dry River, he appreciates the way the city looks as it wakes up. A girl runs out of a door, laughing in her stained green dress, and her beleaguered mother watches her as she sweeps. Birds sing in the brush that grows obstinately wherever the dirt hasn’t been tamped down by the passage of feet. He can smell a hundred breakfasts and, somewhere, baking bread.

He can smell blood, too: his own, where is continues to run over his trembling fingers, and the speckles of Connors’ blood over his coat. It’s funny, he thinks, that the more blood seeps out of him the heavier he feels.

Carrion Street is undergoing the same awakening as the rest of Dry River when he finally stumbles around a familiar corner. Errol can’t hold back a grin when he sees the low light glinting off the hand-lettered blue and gold “Community Garden” sign, the morning glory wound around the post just closing its snowy blossoms.

Someone shakes out a rug on their porch, someone else throws open their window to release the scent of griddle cakes, someone again emerges from their house to toss a bone to the dog sleeping under their stoop. The third person sees Errol and raises a hand in greeting—if only his vision wasn’t so blurred, if only he could call their name to mind—

The street pitches sideways and Errol finds himself reaching for a handhold that isn’t there. He sits down in the dirt, hard, and blinks at the pressure against his shoulder and the low _clang_ that accompanies it. The sound repeats itself quietly a few times, but maybe it’s just his ears ringing. He squints up and sees that he has slammed into the community watch alarm bell.

A laugh explodes out of his throat in a wordless croak. That blurred shape from the porch is over him now, casting a long shadow, and soon more shapes join it. It’s his neighborhood, gathering around him in his time of need, and for some reason Errol feels like crying. Maybe it’s the pain growing to the intensity of a railroad spike being driven between his ribs with each breath.

He catches a few words—“blanket,” “bandages,” “water”—and soon he feels hands tight around his arms, sliding around his chest and pulling him upright. The pain screams to a new pitch but he doesn’t make a sound. He’s too busy trying to figure out how such a bright morning could have gone so dark so quickly.

The smell of griddle cakes gets stronger and he lands on something soft. Errol smiles. Somewhere, beneath the confusing flashes of sensory input, he recognizes the rise and fall of several voices around him. A comforting tightness presses against his wound and then he is allowed to lie down.

A hand slides over his cheek, and with it comes snatches of a song. The last few words he hears before succumbing to the soothing melody are “He’s going to be all right, with rest.”

How could he be anything else? He is taken care of.


End file.
